


a kiss without a motive

by jenwryn



Series: 50 kisses [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Developing Relationship, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenwryn/pseuds/jenwryn
Summary: The bus breaks down on the way home from a match. Takeda takes care of it; Ukai takes care of Takeda.
Relationships: Takeda Ittetsu/Ukai Keishin
Series: 50 kisses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094909
Comments: 20
Kudos: 77





	a kiss without a motive

**Author's Note:**

> This is the mildest M you'll find, all because one short section felt a little bit too spicy (too much like 'adult themes'!). My apologies, especially if you happen to have followed me here from a different fandom and were expecting something more along the lines of my usual horny content, because... this is really not that.
> 
> Ahh, why is posting fic for a new fandom so intimidating!
> 
> (Written for one of my [50 kisses prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094909); the prompt is also the title.)

Keishin’s cold. Keishin’s yawning. Keishin’s too tired to be properly frustrated that a broken-down bus isn’t something he can fix— isn’t one of the old farm vehicles he’s been tinkering with since he was a kid, isn’t his simple little car. He breathes out, pressing his chilled hands to the bus’s still-warm metal. Takeda’s already on his second phone call with… someone from the school’s administration? A mechanic? An insurance company? Keishin doesn’t know, though he sure does recognise the no-nonsense-yet-charming voice Takeda is using on them.

‘That’s definitely _technically_ true,’ Takeda is saying. ‘You’re completely right, but have you considered the optics of— mm, yes. Exactly.’

Keishin leans against the bus and smiles as Takeda weaves words into his phone. It’s the insurance company, Keishin’s sure of it now. There’s something about the bright edge to Takeda’s expression, just a little more intense than it would be if he were talking to a local mechanic being hauled away from his dinner or a school admin who Takeda sees on a daily basis. Keishin tunes out the specifics of the conversation, anyway — Takeda has it under control — and just watches him instead. Takeda looks good like this.

Well. Takeda always looks good. Like this, he looks _distracting_ — face bright, cheeks pink with cold, free hand punctuating his words as he walks back and forth. Keishin is thoroughly enjoying the show.

He’d be enjoying it even more if only it weren’t so damn cold. He cups his hands near his mouth, puffing warm breath into them. 

The sun was already down when Takeda had so carefully steered the bus onto the grassy verge, Keishin jolted awake by a shrill noise grinding from within the bus’s workings. Nightfall had not, however, made the day’s cutting breeze drop. The wind is lifting golden leaves and Keishin’s hair alike; his skin is prickling beneath the thin material of his coach’s uniform.

He slides his hands into his pockets and finds them, tragically, empty. Not a cigarette to be found. He thinks of the last smoke he’d had— quick and dirty, around lunch time, a couple of the kids hovering just close enough to make him feel bad about it. He thinks of the smoke before that— leant out a window, breath puffing white from cold as much as from his cigarette; he’d already been wearing his outdoors coat, half-awake but ready to go, while Takeda inhaled too-dark coffee at the low table behind him.

Oh.

‘I’m going to find our coats,’ Keishin says, more to himself than to Takeda.

Takeda gives him a nod and a smile and a contented little wave anyway.

The temperature is so much nicer inside the bus. They’ve kept the door closed, of course, trapping the lingering warmth from the long drive. The kids look comfortable; all of them are asleep and most of them are snoring. They’d woken, earlier, when the bus had pulled to a stop. They’d begun the shuffle out of their seats, assuming they’d arrived back at the school. It had taken no persuading to get them to sit back down, text their parents, and fall straight back to sleep.

Keishin leans around the driver’s seat and looks for Takeda’s coat. There’s no sign of it. It’s not in either of their bags, and it’s not where Keishin had been sitting. He finds his own coat — thank god, fingers closing around the comforting shapes of his lighter and his smokes — and drapes it over his seat.

He walks, quietly, along the aisle, looking for Takeda’s.

The kids sleep like the dead, Keishin knows, the bodies they push to the limits coming to a grateful stop whenever they can, but he still moves cautiously, taking care not to bump them where they lean and sprawl.

They look painfully young like this. Even Azumane and Sawamura look like children, curled up on either side of Sugawara on the backseat. Hinata looks like a veritable _infant_ , smooshed up against Nishinoya. 

Keishin peers beneath their feet, then looks down the other side of the aisle.

Tsukishima’s expression is soft for once, his whole body angled to let his head rest against Yamaguchi’s. Yamaguchi is drooling against him and, while Tsukishima’s undoubtedly going to be bitchy about that when he wakes, Keishin can quite clearly see the way the middle blocker’s fingers are curled around the pinch server’s hand. Keishin wonders, briefly, whether they’d gotten like that before or after they’d fallen asleep and then decides, with absolute certainty, that he really doesn’t care to know. 

Takeda’s coat is nowhere to be seen on that side of the bus, either.

Perhaps it’s somehow ended up in one of the kids’ bags. Perhaps it’s been left courtside. There’s no way to know for sure, without waking everyone up, which he is absolutely not going to do.

Keishin gathers his own coat and heads to the door, looking around one last time. The warmth of the bus really is tempting, even if it does smell like muscle rub and sweaty sneakers.

Takeda is outside, though.

Keishin steps down into the roadside grass, drawing the door closed behind him.

Takeda is still in full swing, is still walking back and forth along the verge as he talks. Keishin’s ribs do the constricting thing they do when Takeda looks particularly determined. He drapes the coat over his arm, waiting for a lull in conversation to offer it to Takeda; he takes his cigarettes from the pocket as he waits, tapping one from the pack. He lights up and grins, haze of white pushed away by the breeze as Takeda talks very calmly but _very_ firmly to whichever poor bastard is trapped at the other end of his call.

Keishin would feel kinda sorry for them except that he, too, would rather be getting the kids back home — would rather be drawing the day to a close — would rather be spending the night tucked in his bed, or Takeda’s, instead of here, marooned amongst darkened fields.

The cold raises goosebumps along his arms. He breathes out smoke; he inhales on a shiver. The bitter heat of it feels good, after hours without, though Keishin’s getting used to long stretches of time between cigarettes. He’s expressed, outwardly, nothing but resistance to Takeda’s wildly unsubtle hints about extending Keishin’s life expectancy — and quitting — but, privately, he knows full well that it’s taking him more than twice as long to get through a pack compared to what it used to.

He focuses on his smoke and refuses, stubbornly, to feel guilty. He enjoys the way it strokes calm through him. It’s good.

The way Takeda turns and reacts to him watching — the way Takeda immediately breaks into a grin, then gestures at his phone and gives Keishin an exaggerated, ridiculously dorky _wink_ — is even better. 

Keishin loves this man.

He tries not to think about it too hard. He’s too new to it. It threatens too easily to overtake him, to overwhelm him, to leave him nothing but this, a heart afloat in a sea of unfamiliar feelings.

He exhales. The smoke drifts like a ghost in the night.

He tips his head back, looking up. It would be warmer if there were clouds, but the sky is dark and clear, stars pricked across it cleanly like his grandmother’s needlework. Keishin doesn’t see the stars as often as he used to. He’s up early enough. He’s up late enough. But he’s busy, or he’s tired, or he’s intent on something else. It gives him a weird sense of nostalgia, now, though he’s not sure what the hell he’s being nostalgic about; it’s an ache that creeps through him and then curls into something else when he lets his gaze drop back to earth and finds Takeda, fallen silent. Takeda, swaying on the spot, a tell-tale motion that says he’s listening to hold music. Takeda, watching him, expression soft and warm and focused entirely on Keishin.

The way Takeda smiles, when Keishin meets his eyes, does things to Keishin that he knows he’s no good at hiding.

He’s given up trying to hide them, at least when it’s only the two of them. He just leans into it. Whatever it is that his face does… he likes the way it makes Takeda flush. He likes the way it makes Takeda’s fingers flex, as though Takeda is fighting the urge to touch, to hold, to grab on and to not let go. 

Takeda wanders over, head still bobbing to the rhythm of the hold music.

Keishin touches the back of his hand to Takeda’s cheek. ‘So cold,’ he says. ‘You should take my coat. I can’t find yours.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Takeda says. ‘You feel the cold more than I do, we both know that.’

They do both know that. They’d worked it out the very first night Keishin had stayed over at Takeda’s place — had stayed over in Takeda’s bed — had hogged the blankets in a way that had made Takeda scold and laugh and fold an extra blanket just for Keishin’s side of the bed.

‘Sensei—’ Keishin starts anyway but there isn’t time for him to argue. The hold music ends the moment he opens his mouth. He watches as Takeda springs back into action, Takeda’s face returning to his telephone expression as he listens to what is being said through his mobile.

The end of Keishin’s cigarette flames brightly as the wind gusts. He inhales sharply. He exhales slowly. He lets the cigarette rest between his lips and he pulls his coat on. Takeda points at the coat and gives him a thumbs up, while nodding along at his phone. The next moment Takeda grins suddenly though, bright and victorious, and Keishin knows that Takeda’s just gotten exactly what he’d wanted and probably something extra on top as well.

Keishin grins back.

Takeda says his thank yous, before ending the call and sliding his phone into his pocket. ‘Help is officially on it’s way,’ he says.

Keishin flicks what’s left of his cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the damp grass beneath his heel. ‘You sure you don’t want to wear my coat?’

‘I’m sure. We can wait in the bus if you’re that worried about me but I’m fine, really.’ His cheeks, betraying his words, are almost red with cold.

Keishin vocalises his disbelief, then glances through the window at the sleeping kids. It would take fireworks under the wheel axles to wake that lot up and it’s probably dark enough. ‘C’mon then,’ he says, using the closest thing he can get to his coach’s voice when it comes to Takeda, and hauls the teacher in against his chest. Takeda makes a breathless, laughing noise as Keishin tugs his coat together across Takeda’s back. It’s not going to zip up around the both of them but he can hold it closed. He waits for Takeda to protest.

Takeda, who was put on the face of this earth to surprise him, does not protest at all. He just huffs out a small, pleased noise and pushes his glasses up into his hair, the better to press his face in against Keishin’s shoulder. He curls one of his hands at the nape of Keishin’s neck and then makes another noise, rumbling his approval loudly against Keishin’s skin.

Keishin’s belly heats.

They’re still new enough to this, still fresh enough, that Keishin is conscious of not knowing all the rules yet. The rules of this— of them. Of dating a co-worker. Of dating Takeda Ittetsu.

Takeda never seems to mind.

‘You smell really good,’ Takeda murmurs, sliding his other hand around to grip at the back of Keishin’s uniform jacket, snug beneath the coat.

‘I missed you today,’ Keishin says, face pressed into Takeda’s hair, and then stares because _what the actual fuck, Keishin_.

He can feel the way Takeda shakes against him, clearly amused, clearly holding in a laugh.

‘I was next to you all day, Ukai-kun,’ Takeda says, after a beat, but there’s no mockery to his voice. He sounds soft and warm. He sounds fond and just the tiniest bit greedy, like Keishin has grown familiar with in bed. It’s new to hear it in public, even if the public is a field and a bus full of fast-asleep teenagers. 

Takeda leans back and looks up, the better to meet Keishin’s gaze.

Keishin shivers, the wind wrapping around them with a flurry of leaves and swaying grass.

Takeda’s fingers shift against him. ‘I missed you too,’ he adds, gently. ‘It’s good to be professional. It’s good, what we do. But I really, really want to touch you when you’re _right there_ beside me.’ He strokes his hand down Keishin’s jacket and then up again— up beneath the jacket, up beneath the t-shirt. His touch sparks heat along the bare skin of Keishin’s lower back. He bites at his lip. He says, quietly, ‘I always want to kiss you when we win. I want it so much.’

Keishin can’t help but imagine that. He imagines putting his arms around Takeda while the kids are celebrating. He imagines picking him up and planting a kiss on him, right there, in front of the world and everyone in it— a chaste kiss, of course, but a victorious one nonetheless. Then he imagines Takeda kissing him, instead; imagines Takeda kissing him the way he always does, like he has no idea that kisses can be something other than achingly tender or searingly hot, like he’s somehow learnt to kiss only in the exact ways that threaten to take Keishin’s knees out from under him.

He never would, of course. They never would.

Keishin tugs Takeda in closer now, though. He lets the shifting motion of his hardening dick, blood rushing south at the mere thought of it all, speak for him.

Takeda shivers out an approving little sigh and shifts against him. Takeda flushes in the moonlight as if he were even vaguely as demure as he looks.

It’s probably Takeda who moves next, who leans up and in, who presses their mouths together. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps it isn’t; Keishin really isn’t sure. Takeda’s hand tangles in Keishin’s hair either way, his fingertips caught at the back where he can get the contact he likes even if he can’t, right now, make the kind of mess he enjoys. Keishin presses his own hand in harder against Takeda’s back, coat gripped tightly. Their mouths are so wet in the cold air, are so warm, heat pooling between them as their tongues touch. Keishin’s self-control falters when Takeda rocks his hips up, sliding their dicks together; the rush of pleasure drags a noise from Keishin that feels raw and rough and alarmingly loud.

Takeda smiles against his mouth and then he’s pulling back, with a tiny kiss against Keishin’s bottom lip — is shifting their hips apart, to let things cool off — is sliding his glasses back down onto his nose — is looking over Keishin’s shoulder and peering into the bus.

The kiss last no time at all, really.

It’s still one of the best Keishin has ever had. No reason, no purpose, no endgame — as much as he likes their usual endgame, as much as he enjoys the way they tumble and fall so easily into nakedness — this, he realises, gazing at Takeda, is good in a completely different kind of way. To kiss because they can. To kiss for the hell of it, because they feel good in each other’s arms, because they feel good wrapped in Keishin’s coat, no matter that they’re not going to follow through on any of it.

He rests his head back against the bus and imagines a whole future of kisses.

‘They’re all still asleep,’ Takeda says. He pushes his glasses back into his hair and smiles. The fondness on his face is so open, is so unashamed, that Keishin feels punch drunk beneath the hit of it. Takeda snuggles back in closer, the line of his dick still chubby against Keishin’s thigh. ‘Sharing a coat was inspired,’ Takeda whispers and then adds, cheerfully, ‘Tell me if you hear a vehicle before I do, though. The replacement minibus is coming from Torono. Probably best if I’m not wrapped up in your clothing when it gets here, since we’re technically still on the clock and all.’

Keishin grins into Takeda’s unruly hair. He smells of Keishin’s conditioner, and Keishin’s smokes, and the tea he’d spilled on himself when they’d stopped to buy the kids dinner. ‘I’ll tell you if I hear anything,’ he agrees and then presses a kiss to Takeda’s forehead.

Keishin’s warm. Keishin’s sleepy. Keishin’s too pleased to be properly afraid of how much he wants to have this — this man, these kisses, these arms wrapped around him — of how much he wants to have this for keeps.

I love you, he says, inside his head.

Takeda smiles against his neck, as if he can read minds; he makes a noise that is soft, is good, is so warmly, brightly happy.

Keishin holds him, and listens for vehicles, and imagines, for the first time, taking someone home to meet his parents.


End file.
